The Five Stages of Grief
by SherlockianWhovian
Summary: After watching Sherlock jump, John is unable to do anything but grieve. Over time, he struggles his way through all five stages of grief - denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance.
1. Denial

**_A/N: Here's something new, let me know what you think. Reviews make me update faster! =)_**

* * *

 _"SHERLOCK!"_

His own scream of his flatmate's name woke John Watson from an uneasy slumber. He'd been awake, unable to rest, since that awful day. His body had finally succumbed to its need to sleep after hours and hours of staring into nothingness, but still, his dreams were haunted by Sherlock stepping off the roof of St Bart's Hospital.

It had all been a blur after he'd stumbled his way over to Sherlock's body lying broken on the pavement. He remembered flashes, of people questioning whether he was alright, of Lestrade driving him back to 221B, of Mrs Hudson attempting to ply him with tea. He felt cold, empty, broken; just like his dead flatmate, although he was forced to continue living in the sick nightmare. He knew that it had been days, that he should get up from the sofa and make himself a cup of tea or do something productive, but he just _couldn't_. Sherlock was gone, so what would be the point? There was nothing to get up for anymore. No cases, no adventures, no late night confrontations with criminals.

No matter how hard he stared at the empty living room in front of him, no matter how much he wished for this to be a dream, he couldn't deny the emptiness inside his chest. He hadn't cried or broken down, he'd just stopped.

* * *

"Oh John, you must eat something." Mrs Hudson sighed, placing a cup of tea and a sandwich down on the coffee table in front of the army doctor.

"I can't." John replied quietly, glancing at the sandwich before he looked away again.

"He wouldn't want this, John." Mrs Hudson said gently, reaching out to place a hand on his shoulder.

"I can't do this right now." John suddenly declared and stood from the sofa. Despite days of sitting, he didn't feel his muscles struggle at all as he slowly made his way up the stairs to his bedroom. He shut the door and leaned against it, closing his eyes and praying for Sherlock to call his name or to appear and declare the whole thing as one big joke.

* * *

The funeral did nothing to free John of the coldness, the heavy weight that seemed to always be resting on his shoulders nowadays. It had been arranged in just a few days and John knew that it had been Mycroft who'd pulled strings one again to arrange it. He didn't know how to feel towards Mycroft, he didn't know how to feel towards anyone anymore.

He knew that deep down he was furious with Mycroft, he wanted to rip him to shreds with his bare hands for betraying Sherlock, but he just couldn't seem to do anything but sit and stand - his gaze empty and lost.

He found himself watching Mycroft throughout the service and as the coffin was lowered into the ground, looking for any sign of emotion, of humanity, of regret or guilt. He saw none. As usual, the government official's expression was blank, hiding away the man's true feelings - if he had any at all. He felt rage beginning to boil up in his throat, suddenly wanting to punch Mycroft Holmes in the face, but he swallowed it back down and clenched his fists a little.

John didn't notice when the funeral came to an end. He just stood there, his eyes looking down at the coffin in the grave at his feet. The small golden plaque on the coffin was simple. It just read _Sherlock Holmes_. John wondered why it was so simple, so free of the dramatics that Sherlock had loved so much. He shook his head a little. No words could sum up a man like Sherlock Holmes anyway.

* * *

The morning after the funeral, John moved out of 221B Baker Street. Living in the empty flat that was full of haunting memories had become oppressing. He could feel Sherlock all around him, yet the man himself was gone. He packed his things into a suitcase and didn't look back. He went straight to his sister and stayed on her couch for a few days whilst he got himself a flat. It was hard to walk away from 221B, but at the same time he couldn't bear to go back to the place.

Despite Sarah's insistence that he take paid leave, John went back to work. He needed something to do and he needed to get out of his tiny new flat. He'd been forced to rent somewhere on the outskirts of the city, as his army pension and wages couldn't afford much.

John was soon sucked into the daily monotony of full time work. He got up at the same time, ate at the same time and returned from work at the same time every day. He shopped sensibly for food, carefully budgeting and counting every penny. His cupboards were filled with tins, easy and cheap meals that didn't require much thought or effort.

His colleagues at the surgery had tried to talk to him about what had happened on numerous occasions since he'd returned to work, but John refused to engage with them. He was determined to keep those thoughts locked down. He was haunted by Sherlock's fall in his sleep, he didn't need to discuss it during his waking hours too. The coldness released its hold on him as days passed by and soon he felt like he could breathe again. It was strange, he thought, it was like Sherlock had never existed. John kept a tight hold on his emotions, not wanting to be seen as weak to those around him, but even he could tell that he was heading towards an emotional breakdown. Once the emptiness, the coldness, had begun to retreat, his emotions had returned to him with full force.

It was when John found himself shouting abuse at his slow computer one afternoon that he thought maybe it was time to talk to someone. His rage had been building again and he struggled to swallow it down as he had at the funeral. He was angry. Angry at everyone for making Sherlock jump, for giving him pitying looks, for talking behind his back.

"Doctor Watson." Anthea's sharp voice dragged John out of his thoughts as he made his way out of the surgery.

"No." John replied, not even stopping to look at her. He kept walking in the direction of the tube station, hoping to miss the rush hour crush.

"Doctor Watson, please." Anthea called, following him.

"No. Tell Mycroft that he can get lost. I'm not interested in what he has to say." John snapped and continued walking, not looking back no matter what she said to him.

* * *

"What the bloody hell are these?" John shouted, practically throwing two mini surveillance cameras down onto Mycroft Holmes' Diogenes Club office desk.

"John..." Mycroft said in a tone that he intended to be soothing and calming, moving to get to his feet.

"Don't you dare get up. Sit there and tell me why the hell you've been spying on me!" John hissed, his eyes showing his fury.

Mycroft raised an elegant eyebrow, as no one dared to speak to him in such a way, but he quickly realized that John was in no mood for Mycroft's words. Reluctantly, the elder Holmes brother sat back down in his chair and watched the army doctor pace like a caged lion in front of his desk.

"It was for your own safety." Mycroft stated simply, as if that explained everything.

John turned and glared at him, slipping straight from denial into anger.


	2. Anger

"For my own safety?" John repeated, his furious voice echoing around the room.

"You haven't discussed Sherlock's death with anyone, I thought it wise to keep an eye on you." Mycroft replied, his tone cold and controlled.

"Thought I'd harm myself, did you?" John hissed, "The only one I want to harm is you!"

"John-" Mycroft started, only to suddenly stop as John moved closer to the desk.

"You sit here and just carry on! Like he never existed! Like you never betrayed him!" John shouted, "You sold Sherlock out, told Moriarty all of his deep, dark secrets just to help yourself. Is all of this really worth Sherlock's death?"

Mycroft raised an eyebrow ever so slightly, considering what he should say to diffuse the situation.

John let out a growl of frustration at Mycroft's apparent silence and flung himself at the desk, sending paperwork, phones, ornaments and a laptop crashing to the floor with a sweep of his arm.

Mycroft pushed his chair back a little as John moved, managing to avoid any falling objects. He'd expected an outburst of some kind, but not for the floor of his office to end up littered with debris.

"Where is my assistant?" Mycroft asked calmly, watching the pacing and panting army doctor. He would have expected Anthea to have heard the shouting and to have come running by now.

"She's dead. I shot her in the head." John hissed, his eyes wild with anger.

"Oh." Mycroft replied with a slight frown of displeasure. Anthea had been a loyal assistant and he hated the thought of having to begin searching for another all over again.

John let out a strained laugh, "She's fine. She's out on lunch and supposed to me meeting me." he said, "Why would I kill her? I have no issue with her, she didn't betray my best friend."

"Is this what you're here to do, John? To kill me?" Mycroft asked calmly, relaxing slightly when he heard that Anthea was still alive and well.

"No." John admitted, a calm and collected expression coming over his face, "I was going to, and I do want to, but he wouldn't have wanted that."

Mycroft let out a breath that he didn't realize he'd been holding, strangely relieved that he wouldn't end his days in his own office by the hand of his brother's grieving best friend.

John returned his attention to the objects that were still intact on the floor. One by one, he picked them up and threw them at the wall, watching with a dark enjoyment as they shattered and cracked further with the impact.

"No. Not that one." Mycroft said quickly, getting to his feet as John picked up a glass paperweight. He'd been quietly watching John destroy the items from his desk, letting him get it out of his system.

John raised an eyebrow at him, "Why not? What's so special about this?" he asked, tossing the glass ball in the air and catching it again, "Surely the Ice Man doesn't have feelings towards an object that can be so easily replaced?"

"It was a gift from my brother. After he finished his time in rehab, he left that on my doorstep." Mycroft replied, watching John throw the paperweight into the air again, "It is _sentimental_ to me."

"Sentimental? I thought _caring is not an advantage_? It's you betrayed him and you alone that killed him." John hissed.

"Yes, I did. I told Moriarty everything in return for information that I hoped would protect this great nation. I have the rest of my life to regret and apologize for my actions." Mycroft replied, "Just don't destroy the last thing that my brother gave to me. Please."

John looked down at the paperweight and considered his options for a moment. He'd charged into the government official's office and had taken his rage out on the man's office furnishings without being arrested or even thrown out. He could leave now or cause even more damage and risk eventual arrest. He didn't want Mycroft to be able to have him sectioned for insanity so he carefully placed the paperweight down on the now empty desk.

"Keep that safe. Don't let it fall like you let Sherlock fall." John muttered through clenched teeth.

"I will." Mycroft replied, his eyes drawn to the only intact item from his desk, "I will also remove all cameras and status alerts that I have on you."

"Good." John said with a nod. He stamped again on what was left of a fountain pen before he turned on his heel and walked out of the office, leaving the door wide open behind him.

Mycroft watched him go before he slowly looked around his office, taking in the debris, the damage to his wall and the ink stains on his carpet. He sighed as he planned how he was going to explain the need for an office redecoration to his superiors. He kneeled down and picked through the debris, pulling out his now cracked and broken mobile phones. One for work, one for home and one to keep in touch with his very much alive little brother.

* * *

John sat alone in his flat and laughed quietly when he thought about Mycroft's shocked face as he'd swept confidential paperwork and other items to the floor. He'd wanted to hit the other man, to shoot him and watch him die in pain, but he was pleased that he'd restrained himself. Instead of killing the man, he intended to ignore him and move on. He was still amazed that it had been two whole days since the incident and he still hadn't been arrested or sectioned. Clearly Mycroft had understood his not-so-subtle message to stay away as he was no longer being followed or watched by cameras.

As the adrenaline began to ease and his anger left him, be began to realize the full extent of what he'd lost. Yes, he still had a home and a job, but there would be no more adventures. No more adrenaline. Nothing left to keep his psychosomatic limp away. The realization that he might soon need his cane again drove John off the sofa and over to the drinks cabinet.

For the first time since Sherlock's suicide, John allowed himself to cry and break down. He drank down a whole bottle of whiskey and sobbed, mourning his friend, their life together and the future that could have been. The alcohol helped to soothe the pain of his grief, but he knew that tomorrow he'd wake up alone and have to face another day without Sherlock. It was only with his flatmate now gone that he realized how much he had cared for the so-called sociopath.

He promised himself that tomorrow, once his hangover had subsided, he would visit Sherlock's grave for the first time since the funeral. It was time to face his demons.


	3. Bargaining

John couldn't remember the cab drive to the cemetery, couldn't even remember what day it was, once his eyes rested on the polished headstone beneath the tree. The cemetery was quiet and peaceful, the misty air giving it an intimate feeling. He moved slowly through the other headstones that were closer to the church, his body seeming to move on autopilot.

Once he reached the final resting place of his best friend, he stood quietly and examined the stone. It was polished and black, with golden lettering that said only his friend's name, with no dates or loving inscriptions like the stones in the rest of the cemetery. The branches of the tree had protected the stone from rain and even seemed to protect it from the moisture in the air.

John cleared his throat, considering what he wanted to say for a moment.

"You...you told me once that you weren't a hero. There were times I didn't even think you were _human_ , but let me tell you this: you were the best man, and the most human...human being that I've ever known and no-one will ever convince me that you told me a lie, and so...there." he spoke quietly, blowing out a breath and swallowing to hold back the tide of emotion. He moved forward and rested his fingertips on the top of the polished gravestone.

"I was _so_ alone, and I owe you so much. Okay." John continued with a nod, taking a step back from the gravestone, "Please, there's just one more thing: one more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don't...be...dead. Would you do...? Just for me, just stop it. Stop this."

He sighed and shook his head, knowing that it had been months now and Sherlock still hadn't returned from the dead. He'd expected it, prayed for it. The man was a genius and he somehow expected the great detective to have made a bargain with even death itself. He swallowed down the sobs that attempted to break free, saluted and turned away from the headstone.

"John." said a voice beside him and John looked up, surprised to find someone else beside him.

"Mycroft." John replied with a frown, turning to face the elder Holmes brother, "What are you doing here?"

"It's Thursday. I always visit on Thursdays." Mycroft replied as if it was obvious, leaning forward to place a new bouquet of white and red roses in front of the headstone.

"You...visit?" John asked in surprise, watching the government official place the flowers down.

"Of course." Mycroft replied, straightening up and leaning on his umbrella, "He wouldn't want me to, but it is strange being alone in a world full of goldfish."

"I'm sorry about your office." John blurted out, suddenly realizing that it had only been a day since he'd taken his rage out on Mycroft's desk.

"It really is no problem, John. It was due for a renovation anyway." Mycroft shrugged a little, his eyes fixed on the headstone. Even though he knew that his little brother wasn't buried here, it still made him feel cold to think of Sherlock being actually dead.

"I'm still angry. I still blame you." John admitted with a sigh.

"Good. You should. I have much to apologize for." Mycroft replied, "I only hope that one day you will understand."

"I doubt that. See you around, Mycroft." John muttered, walking away.

Mycroft watched him go before he turned back to the headstone. He never spoke as his visits were only ever for show. He knew that he was being watched and he did his best to play the grieving brother.

With a sigh and a nod to the grave, Mycroft made his way up to the church and stepped inside. He sat down on the end of one of the pews in the middle of the church. He closed his eyes, enjoying the peace and quiet of the church. He wasn't a religious man but he did appreciate the mindfulness that religion encouraged. He was able to cope with his abilities much better than Sherlock, but even he too had to spend time away from others sometimes.

There was movement beside him and Mycroft opened his eyes, his expression showing his confusion at John Watson's presence beside him.

"Help me understand why you did it." John said quietly, his gaze on his hands as they fidgeted nervously.

"John-" Mycroft started with a sigh.

"No. If I'm going to spend the rest of my life hating you then I want to know what I'm hating you for. Tell me what you did and why you did it. I want the truth." John replied, his tone a little more harsh.

After a moment of consideration, Mycroft nodded, "Very well." he said.

* * *

John sat alone in the church long after Mycroft had left. The government official had offered him a lift home in his car, but John had declined, wanting to stay in the church for a little longer. He didn't really know what to feel anymore. Mycroft had told him about the key code and the torture methods that had failed on Moriarty. He'd told him that Moriarty would only reveal information when Mycroft revealed Sherlock's past, a trade of information that had proved deadly to both Sherlock and the psychopath.

He wanted to hate Mycroft but now he knew the truth, things weren't as black and white anymore. The elder Holmes had clearly been in a tough situation - choosing between the country that he served and his little brother. John didn't want to consider what he would have done if he were in the same situation. Would he sacrifice someone to save millions of others?

After Mycroft had left, John had prayed. There were very few times in his life that he had prayed but he found himself begging for divine intervention more often now that Sherlock had jumped. He was bored and sick to death of the everyday. He knew that if he had the choice, he'd make a deal with the devil to go back and ensure that Sherlock survived. He'd even make the jump himself if that's what it took to keep the genius alive.

With his anger and hatred towards Mycroft beginning to fizzle out, John wasn't sure how he should feel. The rage had kept him moving forward, had given him a goal and a target, but now there was nothing. A future of boredom, of bills, of rush hour tube journeys, and of loneliness.

John's world was grey without Sherlock.


	4. Depression

John could see his phone flashing and ringing but he couldn't bring himself to move from his bed to answer it. What would be the point? Sherlock wasn't coming back so John didn't see any point in even getting up. He'd called in sick to work two weeks ago and hadn't contacted Sarah since. He knew the phone calls were probably from her, telling him that he was fired, but he didn't care.

It had been a long few months, full of ups and downs and he'd finally reached the point where he just couldn't continue anymore. He'd not given Mrs Hudson his address and he hadn't spoken to Greg or Molly since the funeral. Without Sherlock around, it didn't feel right spending time with the Detective Inspector and the pathologist.

His handgun had been sat on the bedside table beside him for three days now. It was loaded and had the safety off. John had initially drawn it out of the drawer in the bedside table with the intent to shoot himself right there and then, but something had stopped him. Instead, he'd put it down and lay back down in bed, closing his eyes and letting the depression drag him further under.

Now was the time, he decided. It was now or never.

"I'm coming, Sherlock." he murmured, slowly sitting up and reaching out for the gun. He picked it up and held it for a moment, feeling the weight of the cold weapon against his skin.

The bedroom door swung open and John was momentarily blinded by the light that flooded into the dark bedroom.

"Sherlock..." he gasped, trying to focus his blurred eyesight on the outline of the man who stood in the doorway. Perhaps this was the divine intervention that he'd prayed for all those months ago?

"Put the gun down, John." came the voice in the doorway.

John put the gun down with shaking hands, swinging his legs off the bed and getting to his feet. His eyes were still adjusting to the light and it wasn't until he got closer that his heart broke. He let himself fall to his knees and openly sobbed, falling apart when he saw the trademark umbrella of the figure in the doorway.

* * *

Mycroft had never been particularly comfortable when he was around crying people. What was he supposed to do? Hugging them was never an option as he had no wish to crease or damage one of his suits. After arriving just in time to stop John Watson from shooting himself in the head, he sidestepped the man and made his way to the bedside table where the gun lay. He picked it up, flicked the safety on and swiftly removed the cartridge. He meticulously went through each and every drawer in the flat, pocketing all the bullets and cartridges that he found before he left the unloaded gun in the bedside table again. He had no interest in taking John's gun from him as he knew it offered the army doctor a degree of safety and comfort.

After ensuring that John was safe from any further suicide attempts for the immediate future, he boiled the kettle and began making tea for the two of them. He thought over his actions and John's response, wondering when he'd begun referring to the other man as 'John' instead of 'Dr Watson'. It was a curious thing, he thought, trying to explore when an unconscious shift had occurred in his own mind.

Mycroft set the two cups of tea down on the coffee table before he made his way back to the bedroom. John had stopped sobbing now and had come to his senses enough to feel embarrassed at his breakdown in front of the other man.

"I've made tea." Mycroft announced quietly, catching John's attention.

"You made tea." John repeated with a slight smile, "I can't imagine you making tea."

"It doesn't happen very often." Mycroft replied with a smile of his own. It was unusual that he let others see genuine expressions on his face but he knew that it was important for John to see some warmth and emotion from him during the doctor's time of emotional turmoil.

John cleared his throat a little, "Well then, let's try this tea." he said with a nod.

Mycroft wordlessly offered his hand and John gratefully accepted it, pulling himself up and attempting to remain steady on his feet after days of limited movement. He steadied John as they walked to the sofa and sat down only after the other man was seated. He handed John the cup of tea and then picked up his own. Mycroft's actions were strangely domestic and calming, something that John had been missing in his time alone in the flat.

"Were you just passing?" John asked after almost ten minutes of comfortable silence.

"Anthea told me that you were fired from your workplace four days ago and that there had been no movement in your flat for some time." Mycroft replied, "I thought it best to check that you were well."

"As you can see, I'm absolutely fine." John said sarcastically, sipping at his tea.

" _He_ told me to look after you." Mycroft murmured quietly, so quietly that John thought he'd missed it.

"That's why you keep turning up? I told you not to watch me anymore." John sighed.

"If I hadn't been watching you, you'd be dead by now." Mycroft replied simply.

"Yes, I would." John agreed.

* * *

It began casually, but it soon became an unwritten calendar fixture that Mycroft and John would meet twice a week. Mycroft usually visited John's flat on his way from one meeting to another, but sometimes they met in the city at the Diogenes Club. The meetings consisted of tea, biscuits and awkward small talk. Neither man felt particularly comfortable in the other's presence but both were too polite to put a stop to the arrangement.

Mycroft slowly went from avoiding discussing his work to sharing memories with John, and John found himself discussing his army days with Mycroft. The government official had spent years working as an undercover agent in the field, despite Sherlock's taunts about his weight and fitness, so he was only too happy to discuss battle strategy and military topics with John.

Neither noticed when the meetings became easy and relaxed, they just did. For months, John had a reason to get up and to go to work. He knew that Mycroft would be waiting for him with a cup of tea at the start of the week.

Naturally, it came as a shock to John when Mycroft disappeared off the face of the earth one week without any word or explanation. After calling the man's mobile and practically stalking the Diogenes Club, Anthea finally appeared one day to explain that Mr Holmes had been called away on an undercover operation in eastern Europe and wasn't expected to return to London for at least four months.

John thanked Anthea, nodded and carried on with his day. When before, this news would have sent him to pieces, he was now back on his feet and able to cope. He had his old job back and he finally felt like he was making progress in his life again. He knew that Mycroft was alive and well which put his mind at ease so he went back to work and began building a new life for himself.

John smiled at the new nurse, Mary, as he walked past her in the corridor of the surgery, heading for his own office.

Mary smiled back and John began planning how best to invite her to dinner with him.


End file.
